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My eyes flickered to him, unsure of how I should respond.

“And if you fail the assignment…”

It was the second time he had threatened me with that, and I was starting to understand he wasn’t messing around. This was no longer just a warning. It was a fact, and it loomed over me like a bad dream.

I allowed myself to absorb and process everything they said while running through the options I knew I didn’t have. I wasn’t just going to walk away from what I had uncovered. But I couldn’t afford the consequences of holding on either. Everything was riding on this class. I could lose my degree and the chance to prove I could do what my mom once used to be so good at.

“I understand, and I’ll try my best to stick to my job description,” I mumbled.

Penny watched me for a good while, and it seemed like she was trying to decide whether I meant it or not. “Your job is to cover the team, to attend the practices and games and to get to know the players. Not to chase theories you can’t prove.”

I gave her a daring look. “I said I understand.”

“Good,” she replied haughtily. “Because I’ll be keeping a closer eye on you.”

Something inside me almost smiled at that. I knew she would keep her word, but I also wondered how far I could really push her before she gave up.

“Then we’re done here,” Professor Adler said, sounding even more annoyed than when he first spoke.

I gathered my things and stood. I didn’t rush because I wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of seeing me crack. But the second I stepped out into the hallway and the door shut behind me, the edges of my notebook pressed into my palm with how hard I worked to not freak out.

They wanted compliance and attendance. It was obedience dressed up as professionalism. But that was fine. I’d give them exactly what they asked for, but not exactly what they expected.

*

By the time I reached the practice later in the afternoon, the sharp edge of frustration had already dulled and turned into something more focused. The air carried the crisp bite of early evening, and it made every sound clearer.

The solid thud of bodies colliding followed a whistle cutting across the field, creating a rhythm of movement that was constant and layered. I slowed as I approached the sideline with my notebook firmly tucked beneath my arm.

This wasn’t my world, and it never had been, but I stepped closer anyway. Ethan dropped back into position, scanning the field with a quick, practiced sweep before releasing a pass that cut clean through the air. Lucas caught it mid-stride without breaking his pace, and his laugh carried as he pivoted and jogged backward.

“That was too easy,” he called out.

“Keep talking,” Malik shot back, already resetting for the next play.

Connor darted through a route a few yards away and nearly clipped another receiver before correcting at the last second.

“I had it!” he immediately insisted.

“You didn’t have anything,” Lucas said, brushing past him.

I huffed out a breath before I could stop myself. These guys were impossible. They were loud, competitive, and constantly talking over each other like noise was part of the process instead of a distraction. And then there was the way they moved.

They weren’t just fast. They meticulously controlled every movement. Every step was placed with intention, and every shift of weight was calculated to point. Even when it looked chaotic from the outside, you could see that everything was measured.

I tracked it without meaning to. My eyes followed the flow of the play instead of picking it apart. Trace took the handoff cleanly. His movements were precise and efficient as he cut through the line. One defender reached for him and missed, his fingers brushing fabric instead of skin as Trace adjusted his angle and kept going. There was no hesitation or wasted motion.

“Again!” Coach Harris called.

Trace reset, jogging back into position without hesitation or argument. This time I took a moment to really watch him and what he was doing.

The way he rolled his shoulders before settling. The way his focus narrowed when the play started and the way everything else just fell away. He didn’t celebrate clean runs and didn’t react to the missed tackles. He just moved to the next rep as if the last one didn’t matter, and that didn’t fit, at least not with what I expected.

I flipped my notebook open and let my pen hover above the page, but I didn’t write, at least not yet. My attention remained locked on the field. There was another play, but this time he took contact head-on with enough force that the hit echoed across the field.

“Good,” Coach Harris called.

Trace nodded once, satisfied. I exhaled slowly as something shifted in the way I was looking at all this. I wouldn’t dare call it admiration, but it wasn’t quite a dismissal either. There was structure hidden in the game, and they were disciplined. It wasn’t exactly what I expected to find, but I appreciated it.